


awaken a young sun

by Mira_Jade



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: . . . so I made it so, . . . sorry Fandral, A'askvariian jokes aplenty, An abusive parent in the form of Thanos, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, I really just wanted these two to meet, If you know the comics you know Tartoonla VII is not a happy memory for Gamora, Interdites and their precognition, Marvel Aliens, Post - Thor: The Dark World, Pre - Guardians of the Galaxy, Searching for those pesky Infinity Stones, Using a missing scene in canon as an excuse for the awesome ladies to be awesome, Warrior ladies figuring their stuff out, references to past rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the world of Tartoonla VII, whilst pursing information of an item of incomparable power at the Allfather's behest, Sif finds herself caught in the crossfires of a deadly feud between an alien gang and a woman who is clearly more than she pretends to be. Meanwhile, Gamora faces a ghost from her past, and for the first time thinks that maybe, <i>just maybe</i>, she may have found the key to freeing herself from Thanos' control . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been toying with this idea for a while now, and finally got around to putting pen to paper. This one is short by my standards - it'll be around 20k when I'm done, most likely - but, so far it's proved a great way to get a few of my MCU theories on paper, along with providing a most convenient way for these two warrior ladies to meet whilst helping canon along. I could not resist such an opportunity, and now here we are!
> 
> (Also, this is unofficially a bit of a prelude to my story [all our winters to pass](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2314454/chapters/5094071) in the sense that it explains more of the history I've outlined in that tale thus far. So, if you want further reading on Sif's post TDW story, it's there if you wish. :))

As far as unsavory places upon the Branches went, Sif had seen worse. Though, she reflected somewhat wryly as she cast an eye over the gritty press of people around her, not by much.  
  
While Tartoonla VII was little more than a dry, dusty rock as a whole, it was a world known for its collection of bazaar like settlements; where one could trade anything from anywhere, legal or not, and, thus so, it was a rather predictable melting pot of unsavory types. The particular tavern they patroned that evening was a perfect example of such a collection, with everything from the run of the mill criminals, to those higher up in the game they dabbled in. A strange, yellow scent clung to the air around them; the telling combination of spilled spirits, smoke, and old blood . . . along with other bodily fluids that Sif did not trust to be properly cleaned. The tavern was dark with shadows, and the few lights levitating over their heads did nothing more than to cast a greasy glow over the melee below. Her boots stuck to the floor, but the bartop was clean enough before her, though not enough so that she trusted resting her forearms against its scuffed surface.  
  
Sif kept a careful eye on her surroundings, turning her torso on the barstool to ensure that the long, Ivaldi forged blade she wore was visible at all times. She did not bother changing from her armor or burgundy leathers; here, most were armed, and most wore some sort of steel or another to protect their bodies. In the beginning, she had caught one brave glance, and then two – their eyes lingering where they ought not in vulgar speculation – but a Myndai with an _unfortunately_ broken wrist had been message enough for the rest to look away. Now she waited in relative peace, her every sense tuned for the arrival of her quarry.  
  
Slowly, she lifted a mug of what the bartender _said_ to be a honey-wine, similar enough to mead, to her lips, and took a displeased sip. With her Aesir metabolism, the drink was little more than water to her, which was, perhaps, for the best, yet the taste left much to be desired . . . much.  
  
Sif searched the crowd, slowly allowing the All-tongue to stop and translate the snippets of conversation nearest to her. Her expression dipped slightly with what she heard, passing some conversations over and lingering on others, before drawing back when a table near to her rose up in an uproar over an unfavorable turn in a game of dice. She turned, poised for defense, when the disagreement deteriorated into blows, but the two bulky Ergons waiting by the entrance to the tavern were there to _discourage_ such outbursts, and the culprits were soon suitably chastised and escorted out.  
  
She gave a sigh, and drained the rest of her glass before placing it back down on the bar with a dissatisfied motion. At her side, Volstagg noticed her look, and the broad planes of his face broke out into a beaming smile. “Aye, my lady, while it is not Kvasir's brew, it warms the stomach well enough, does it not?”  
  
“It _burns_ it, perhaps,” Sif returned lightly. “I would give it no more praise than that.”  
  
Volstagg gave a rumbling laugh, and slapped a meaty hand against her back. “Then I do not think you've yet drank enough of it! As dear Fandral must do so to gather his wits about him, for I have chosen for him a fine lady, of beauty and grace - ”  
  
“ - of _tentacles and fangs_ , I believe you meant to say,” Fandral was quick to disagree, peeking out from around Volstagg's mass to frown in clear distaste. He drained another glass of something stronger than their watered down honey-wine, making a face as he did so.  
  
“You were the one to claim that you could woo any a . . . fair maiden,” this, Volstagg gave with an exaggeratedly delicate voice, “that I could find within this fine establishment. I have your new battle-axe on the line as a wager, at that.”  
  
“When I said a _fair maiden_ , I meant one that was at least _biologically compatible_ ,” Fandral protested.  
  
“And who is to say that _she_ is not? After you figure out what to do with the tentacles, the rest should be business as usual. Am I right, my friend?” Volstagg gave with a bellow of satisfied amusement. He gestured for Sif's benefit, pointing out a woman in grey leather and burnt-orange plates of armor, lounging on one of the low couches while her crew gambled around her. She had green-blue skin, and while she was vaguely humanoid, the gills she had for a nose, her mouth of needle-teeth, and her tentacles in place of arms . . . Sif kept a carefully neutral expression in reply to Volstagg's choice, understanding Fandal's hesitation.  
  
“Indeed, she is quite the fair conquest,” even so, Sif seconded Volstagg's choice with exaggerated cheer. “She suits you, Fandral.”  
  
Fandral's face dropped, even as he tried to keep up his confident facade. “An _A'askavariian_ ,” he shook his head as the bartender placed another glass down before him. “I cannot believe that I am agreeing to this. It is going to take many nights with Freyja's soft arms to cure my mind of this folly.” And, with that, he drained the second glass, before standing with a determined shrug of his shoulders.  
  
“Remember, the new battle-axe, the _Ivaldi_ forged one,” Volstagg reminded, “not the one you pawned off of the Nibelungs last season!”  
  
“And I ask that your first child, should she be a girl-child, be named after me!” Sif gave a wicked smirk, and tipped her glass in Fandral's direction – who made a rather rude gesture at both of them, before turning towards the A'askavariian with a determined stride.  
  
Sif shook her head as she turned back to scouting the crowd around them. “Do you think he has a chance?” she asked her companion.  
  
Volstagg smiled sharply in reply. “Oh, I expect her to eat him alive.” And that was that.  
  
They then waited in companionable silence, watching the crowd and Fandral's progress at turns. Sif did not touch her wine again, and Volstagg sat back to observe her with a steady gaze.  
  
“I believe that you may relax, my lady,” he said, his voice softening. “We have tracked this being all over Tartoonla. If he is on this world, he is most likely holed up in the canyons. I do not think that you will meet him this night.”  
  
“And yet, if we do,” she set her mouth in a thin line. “I want to be ready.”  
  
Volstagg frowned, and she turned away from his gaze, wanting not of his consideration. It was a concern that she was growing quite adept at dodging, at that.  
  
“It has been an unstable few years for all of us,” Volstagg nonetheless prodded gently. “Subduing the Realms once more . . . mourning the Allmother . . . losing Thor to Midgard, and the death of . . .” Volstagg's words cut off awkwardly, and she tensed at the name the strong-man swallowed away.  
  
“I am simply alert to my duty,” she said in a stiff tone. “No more, and no less.”  
  
“And you have all but _thrown_ yourself into your duty, Sif,” Volstagg finally said bluntly. “You have not slowed; you have not stopped. You are rarely found far from the training rings when you _are_ home, and you do not sleep – not as you should. I know,” he said carefully, “what Thor meant to you, and what his absence must - ”  
  
“ - _that_ ,” Sif interrupted on a hiss of breath, “has no relevance to anything. I am happy for Thor and his star-searcher, truly I am. Any missing I bear for him is that of a friend I have known since childhood. Nothing more, and nothing less.”  
  
Volstagg gave her a long, level look, as if trying to read the truth from the black of her eyes. She held his stare, and let him look.  
  
“Then, is it something else?” he asked gently. “Something weighs upon you, even moreso than our . . . odd string of tasks for the Allfather as of late. I will not force you to do so, but know that if you ever need to speak to another, and unburden your mind . . .” his voice tapered off. “Know that I am there to give an ear, just as I would be for any of my daughters.”  
  
Sif inclined her head, hating that her eyes were hot when she blinked. She reached over, and covered Volstagg's massive hand with her own. “I thank you, my friend,” she said, her voice heavy with more feeling than she cared to share just then. “But, truly, there is nothing troubling me. It is only the task at hand that weighs upon me.”  
  
Volstagg was quiet for a long moment, before giving her a sad smile. “Of course, Sif.”  
  
He inclined his head, and turned to watch Fandral's progress once more. Sif sat up straighter on her stool, and forced her eyes to focus on the din around her. She couldn't afford a distraction now, not when her numerous missions as of late were the perfect distraction she needed, turning her mind from the empty places in Asgard's halls . . . the empty spot by her side . . . in her bed . . . in her _heart_ . . .  
  
But, such a feeling was a _weakness_ , and she had no use for it now. Instead, she took another long draw of her watery mead, and turned to keep a steady eye on the crowd once more.  
  
  


.

.

  
In many ways, Tartoonla VII was much as Gamora remembered.  
  
The long ways of red sand and burnt orange stone remained the same. The hot, dry air was much as she remembered it, as was the exotic mesh and mingling of so many peoples and places in one spot, cobbled together like fish and corral about a reef.  
  
At least, that was what she had thought about Tartoonla _then_. Then, she had been a wide-eyed girl, one who thought to know the cruelty of the world, but truly had no idea. She looked though the market stalls as they passed, seeing everything from ornate K'lanti rugs and robes; to gold and silver wares mined and forged on Cron; to shells and other such riches of the sea from Arima – all highly valuable substances, peddled here for a fraction of the cost to those with the coin and gumption enough to brave such a place.  
  
She looked into one stall, seeing where an elderly woman sold mobiles of brightly painted glass and dancing lights. This same stall had been here, all of those years ago, and Gamora had touched the dancing light with the awe of a girl who was more child than woman, even though she had not then realized the difference. Now, the same colours danced, and she merely glanced at the twirling lights before looking away.  
  
“This must bring back such memories for you, sister,” at her side, Nebula's voice was a saccharine parody of familial concern. The underlying, synthesized tones of her voice grated at her ears, and for a moment, Gamora was taken back – to when Nebula had proudly sported her first modification on this exact same world, wondering aloud why Gamora had no wish to augment herself in the same way. In those days, there had been nothing approaching love between them, but they had been comrades enough – sisters in arms - and Nebula's competitive edge had not yet been quite so sharp.  
  
Gamora set her jaw, and did not think about Nebula brushing her hair back from her brow, her fingertips catching in the blood matted there, as Thanos' voice rumbled _who did this?_ the same as a storm would build in the heavens.  
  
“I remember nothing,” she said in a cool voice. She tilted her head up, the hood of her cloak shadowing her brow as she did so. While there was little chance that any here would remember her from Thanos' scourge in vengeance for the harms done to her, she wished to take no chances.  
  
Nebula rolled her shoulders. “It matters not to me,” she said as easily as commenting on the landscape around them. “I was in favor of wiping the incident from your mind completely. But Father,” her voice lingered over the endearment, “wished for you to remember your folly . . . the price of your disobedience and _weakness_.” She all but purred the word, and Gamora's fingers twitched with the urge to take her voice from her throat. Such a thing would not do here, she reasoned, not in the open as they were.

Not that such a thing mattered on Tartoonla, Gamora thought next. It had not mattered _then_.

“I am not the _girl_ I was then,” Gamora replied in a fierce whisper, not bothering to say more than that. Her record stood before her, adorned with more victories and triumphs than Nebula could ever hope to compete with. What stood as a thing of jealousy for her sister was a disquieting thought to Gamora, and her stomach turned with the field of red she trailed in her wake.  
  
“No,” Nebula gave, her eyes flickering over the faint white lines ridging her skin. “No you are not.”  
  
Gamora set her mouth at the stare, yet it was only through force of habit that she did not remember herself as strong and real, with clean, organic lines defining her blood and bones. Instead, she made fists of her hands, and when her clenched nails drew blood from her palms, her modified healing ability lapped at the wound like an attentive dog.  
  
She inhaled, and said, “Let us find our mark and leave this place. I do not much care for its stench.”  
  
Nebula only inclined her head, but when Gamora sped her stride, she matched to follow. “Lead the way,” her voice was a droll, mocking sound, but it was acquiescence – and that was all that Gamora cared for as she ducked away from the setting sun above, and let one of the seedier taverns in the settlement swallow them.  
  
Their target that evening was an Interdite named Aamir. After the destruction of their homeworld, the surviving Interdites settled far and wide across the galaxy as hermits, caring little for the hustle and bustle of larger worlds and more developed cities. They kept their culture alive, while studying the beliefs and mysticisms of other worlds, their minds naturally precognitive, allowing them to dabble in many of the psionic arts. This particular Interdite had a piece of information that was relevant to their father and his plans. Thus, it was to them to extract the needed information from Aamir, and report back to Thanos as soon as they were successful.  
  
Why the Interdite would settle on the likes of Tartoonla, Gamora knew not. Yet, the deserts of this world were certainly remote, and a hermit like Aamir would be able to find few more secluded spots in the universe. While dangerous, there were supplies and pieces of civilization to be found in the bazaar-settlements – Aamir had only lapsed by keeping to a rather predictable schedule and routine. Today was his day to journey into town for supplies and information, and Gamora and Nebula planned to intercept him.  
  
They entered the settlement's one bustling tavern, and took a seat in a corner booth, draped with shadows. Nebula's cybernetic eye whirled with a soft, clicking noise as she scanned the patrons around them. A tight look touched her mouth, and she raised her one natural brow in what Gamora thought to be disgust.  
  
“This is quite the establishment,” she commented wryly, before leaning back in her seat. She propped her boots up on the table, and settled in for the wait. Caring not who saw her, she opened up the panel on her modified arm, and started her routine of tightening and checking all of the cogs and gears in a deliberate, methodical manner. Gamora set her mouth at the display, before looking away, knowing when she was being purposefully riled enough to not let it affect her.  
  
Instead, she turned away from her sister, and angled her body to watch the door. And slowly, the minutes passed them by.  



	2. Chapter 2

In the end, an hour's time passed before their quarry entered the tavern.  
  
Sif was instantly alert, subtly elbowing Volstagg and nodding to the tall, blue-skinned humanoid who had just ducked in from the twilight beyond.   
  
“Aamir,” she whispered, standing from her place at the bar.  
  
Volstagg's keen eyes saw the same as she, and he nodded. “Let me fetch out companion before the A'askavariian gives him another black eye,” he said, moving his great mass away from his stool with an ease that should have bellied his size.  
  
“I will intercept,” Sif agreed, discreetly moving to the other end of the bar, where the Interdite man had sat down with a weary looking motion.  
  
It was easy to approach him unnoticed with the ruckus created by the throng of people surrounding them. Sif stepped up behind her target, and pressed the flat of her blade against his side in a subtle warning.  
  
“Aamir,” she gave in a pleasant tone when the Interdite's warm grey eyes turned to look at her. “A word, if you please?”  
  
“Lady Sif,” the Inderdite greeted her with a bow of his head. He gestured to the empty stool next to him. “I was expecting you.”  
  
She narrowed her eyes, but then remembered the Allfather's warnings about Aamir's talent for precognition.  
  
“Ah, you understand,” Aamir whispered. He had a pleasing voice, she thought, like that of a skald, ready to embark upon a story. He tapped the side of his temple, and said, “If I did not wish to speak to you, I would not have come. But, alas, while many things about one's destiny can be fought against, there are some things that are as river-stones in the current of life and time. This night is one of those absolutes.”  
  
The bartender appeared a moment later, and placed down two tall mugs of an amber liquid. Aamir inclined his head at the drink. “More like the mead you are accustomed to,” he said benignly. “I have found that it is one of the few palatable things here.”  
  
“I am not here for merriment,” Sif said, unsure of how to handle Aamir's easy, expectant manner. “I have questions that need answering.”  
  
“So it is with us all,” Aamir inclined his head. “And yet, you will not object to a dead man taking his last drink, would you?”  
  
She stiffened, and tightened her hand about the hilt of her blade. “I mean you no harm, Seer. Not if you answer the questions I have to put to you without trickery or guile.”  
  
“No, dear child,” Aamir agreed, “you carry no ill-will for me. Yet, I see the fruits of many things to take seed this night, and my death is but one amongst many. Do not fight it, shield-maiden, for I have long accepted my end to come.”  
  
Sif frowned, little caring for the calm acceptance she heard in the man's voice, prophetic vision or not. Everything within her balked against it, no matter that she had been raised to adhere to the wisdom of the Nornir as absolute. She forged her own fate, no one else, and such prophesies were often steeped in such riddles that it was impossible to tell the true from the false.  
  
“I see it in your eyes, you balk against my fate,” Aamir said, “but I ask that you do not mourn for me. For now, you have questions, and I would see them answered as best I may.”  
  
Sif placed her long knife upon her lap, not yet ready to give in to Aamir's vision just yet. “I come seeking out rumors of a great power; a power you have seen with your own two eyes, and may lead others to in turn.”  
  
Aamir shook his head. “I said I would give you answers, but you ask the wrong questions.”  
  
“Do I?” Sif returned. “This is the task I complete for my liege-lord and King. I have no other questions to pose.”  
  
“Do you not?” Aamdir asked, raising a dark blue brow. This close, she could see that the tips of his ears were pointed, like those of the Álfar. His seemingly bare skull was decorated with swirling silver lines, telling a story that she was ignorant to translate. “For I see many doubts within you . . . many questions . . . many _longings_ . . .”  
  
“I _long_ ,” Sif interrupted in a hard voice, “only for the Stone I was sent to seek.” She clamped down on the whispering voice within her; a voice that was curious, a voice that wanted to speak, and hear the answers he could give in return. And yet, she did not know if his visions gave them much time, or only a little, and she would not selfishly seek her own answers first.  
  
“Your fate, as well as the fate of those dearest to you, is entwined with _all_ of the Stones,” Aamir waved a hand. “You need not fight so hard to make it so, for they shall come to you as a burden whether you seek them or not.”  
  
Sif raised a brow, and tapped her fingers against the counter before them. She pursed her mouth, having ever found that dealing with beings with precognition to be troubling, as their minds ever swam from past to future, seemingly having no grasp on the _now_ she needed them to exist in. “Is this all you can tell me?” she asked.  
  
Aamir tilted his head. “Perhaps,” he answered. “For now, at least.” He picked up the mug before him, and took a long draw of the amber liquid within. “This is very good,” he said pleasantly. “You should drink.”  
  
Sif sighed through her teeth, but picked up her glass and took a long swallow - if only to please her companion. Aamir nodded in approval. “There, we have shared drink together, which always makes conversation between friends all the sweeter.” He did not have lips, she saw, but the line of his mouth smiled at her, even as she raised a brow in reply.  
  
“Seer,” she said as patiently as she could, “As much as I am enjoying your company, I must ask you to push the riddles aside. My mission has the stipulation of time placed against it, and I must make what haste I may. All I need from you is a name; one name, one place.”  
  
“Time,” Aamir repeated, tilting his head. “You are right, we have little time left to us.” With that, he darted a surreptitious look over his shoulder, and Sif saw what he saw: the patrons in the bar all subtly shifting . . . moving themselves into place. She could taste the violence on the air, even as Volstagg stood with his battle-axe in hand, and Fandral drew his rapier so that an inch of the gleaming steel shone from his holster, a clear warning in the stance of his body, if not in the charming smile he turned on the crowd as a whole.  
  
“We will continue this conversation elsewhere,” Sif curtly decided, not caring for Aamir's predictions when combined with such a movement of armed men. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that Fandral's A'askavariian came to stand beside him, her tentacled arms swaying threateningly as she bared her teeth in what could have been a smile or a scowl. She looked, and counted, noticing _ten . . . twelve . . . fifteen_ . . . While she would take her comrades over any of the foes this world had to offer, she did not care for the numbers as they grew. _Eighteen . . . twenty . . . twenty-three_ . . . She noticed that each who moved towards them wore a patch at their shoulders, of a sun being pierced by a three pronged blade. A gang, some petty warlord's crew, she surmised, and, their leader . . .  
  
Sif could not spy a deferring head in the mob, and she did not have time to make out their commander. She drew her blade again, holding it before her as she ushered Aamir off his stool. “Our time is up, Seer.”  
  
Aamir was not quick to follow her, but he did allow her to push him from the tavern, glancing at the barkeeper, who in turn gestured to a narrow hall that led back to storage rooms and an office of some sorts. Sif kept her glance trained on the tavern, hearing an uproar when Volstagg moved his great mass to block the way they escaped, even as the first shot was fired.  
  
The last thing Sif saw as they turned the corner was a woman whose apple-green skin was obscured by the hood of her cloak, her space-dark eyes watching . . . following . . . More so than any of the armed thugs who fought her comrades beyond, this woman . . . Sif could _feel_ the war in her blood, the armies waiting in her stride, the deaths staining her fingertips . . . She inclined her head in the barest of nods, and then closed the door barring the passage-way beyond them, jamming the control panel of the door with the hilt of her blade, causing it to spark and sputter with a puff of smoke.  
  
“Now,” she said to Aamir, gesturing to where the night was falling. “Shall we?”  
  
Yet, when she turned, Aamir did not seem poised to run. Instead, he looked at her with sad, old eyes . . . ancient eyes, Sif could not help but think, weighed down by many things. “Dear child,” he said in his warm voice, “I wish that we had met at another time.”  
  
Sif scowled, moving to push him away from the back of the tavern, and further into the alley. Within, the sound of shouts – and screams – grew even louder. The night was blurring her vision, she thought. She blinked, and tried to force her eyes to focus.  
  
“You will not make it far,” Aamir whispered. “I have foreseen it.”  
  
“Then you'd best stop talking, and move your feet,” Sif said on little more than a growl. But the harsh note to her voice disguised the fact that she was finding it hard to shape her words. Her limbs felt heavy; her world spun. Her temples pounded and her mind seemed to soften, as if . . .  
  
“Poison?” she muttered, her voice muddling the sharpness of the word. “What was in those glasses?” Her Aesir metabolism made it so that there were few things in the universe that could affect her, but this . . .  
  
“Not for you,” Aamir too slurred, and she realized that the same malady was befalling him. Acting on instinct, she went to support his weight as his legs gave out, but she only slid to the ground along with him. “For _me_ . . . for . . .” he weakly tapped the side of his temple, and she understood – whoever else wanted Aamir wanted him alive, and unable to foresee their next move until they wanted to make use of his gifts for themselves. She set her jaw, and tried to stand again, determined that they would claim him only at the edge of her blade.  
  
The venom for Aamir was having an adverse reaction with her system, though . . . she could not stand, she could hardly lift her knife, let alone draw her glaive, and . . .  
  
Sif slumped against the side of the alley, even as the back-door to the tavern was forced open in a shower of sparks and warped metal. She blinked, but found her vision slowly failing her. She tried to find her voice – to call for Fandral, for Volstagg – for Heimdall, even - and yet . . .  
  
“I promise you, that before this is over, I will give you a name . . . one name,” Aamir whispered as her world went dark. “And, hopefully, that name shall be boon enough for all that will soon befall you.”

 

 

 

.

.  
  
Things went surprisingly quickly after that.  
  
As soon as the big guy drew his axe, Gamora leaned forward in her seat, curious as to what he thought he could accomplish with so simple a piece of steel against so many superiorly armed men. At his side, the slimmer one was smiling in a way that prompted Nebula to mutter about etching a permanent grin onto his face. Yet it took but a moment for her to understand that his charm was a facade when he knew how to use his blade, and use it well.  
  
But, most of all, there was the woman . . . the woman who had retreated with Aamir. For a moment, Gamora felt as if the woman had looked through her – _within her_ – with the gaze of a god, and she did not quite care for what she may have seen.  
  
“Aamir is escaping,” Nebula remarked pleasantly, watching the brawl with what may have been amusement in her dark eyes.  
  
“Let them do our work for us,” Gamora said on a tight voice as she too stood. There was a body thrown before them – hurled across a table or two by the large one – and she stepped over the unconscious form without blinking. “It matters not to me.”  
  
“You noticed, then?” Nebula asked. “This crew . . . Trident has rebuilt, and rebuilt in force.”  
  
“It has been many years,” Gamora set her jaw, not allowing a flicker of emotion to enter her voice – as Nebula was no doubt looking for. “Such a thing is not surprising.”  
  
“I did not realize that Father left so many of them alive,” Nebula mused as they stepped out into the night, turning to make their way around back. “How sloppy on his part.”  
  
“How else do you think stories are spread, if not by those who live to tell the tale?” Gamora arched a sardonic brow as they picked up speed for an outright run upon reaching the alley. There was a hovercraft at the other end of the alleyway, where two bodies were being carried aboard by more of the Trident lackeys. Nebula made to rush forward, the blood-haze already turning her eyes as black as pitch, before Gamora reached out a hand to stay her.   
  
“Wait,” she said, even as the repulsors fired up in a flare of yellow light, illuminating the alley in a sudden glare. “It will be easier to recover our mark in transit. With how many are aboard, along with those still within . . .”  
  
Her words were punctuated by a loud scream from inside the tavern, followed by the tell-tale sound of a grenade going off, and Nebula snorted. “I do not think we will have to long worry for those within,” she returned, but she stood down, her mechanical eye whirling thoughtfully. “Do not think that I do not understand, sister. I would do the same if I were you.”  
  
“I am only thinking of the mission,” Gamora returned on a growl. “Nothing more. We have two separate groups seeking Aamir, and I care not for the variables without knowing them fully.”  
  
“Of course,” Nebula shrugged after a heartbeat, turning instead to where they had their own craft parked and ready to go. “And yet, I still believe it was careless on Father's part to have left so many of the Trident alive. I expect you to do better this time.”

 


End file.
